


the quiet world

by mayerwien



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Male Friendship, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Tea, meaningful hand brushing, rarepair, ship if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 17:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: The first time they meet, Peter is pulling him up out of the sea, and the world is on fire.





	the quiet world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [puppybutt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppybutt/gifts).



> Ew.
> 
> (Canon timeline has been mucked about with just a little, to suit the purposes of this story!)

The first time they meet, Peter is pulling him up out of the sea, and the world is on fire.

There isn’t time to notice him, just yet; he’s just another wild-eyed face, just another body slick with black oil that Peter hauls onto the deck, then ushers aside so he can reach down and grab the next man. The boat is rolling like a drunk, and Peter’s grip falters more than once—but he keeps forcing himself to hold tight to the soldiers’ slippery, callused hands, to brace his knees against the side and pull, mouthing over and over _I’ve got you, here, here._

Then they all see it, the Luftwaffe plane scoring a white line across the sky as it falls. Officer Collins is shouting that they have to _go now, go go go,_ and Peter can feel them gaining speed as his father turns the boat to clear the wreckage.

When the explosion comes, it is quick and absolute. Peter gasps as it rips through the water and shudders through his whole body, his ears bursting, his heart jutting up into his throat. Salt spray rains down onto the deck, and as one the soldiers duck and cover their heads, practiced and desperate. Someone shrieks as though they’ve just been torn in two. Maybe they have. The whole damn world on fire.

_We’re far enough. We’ve made it out. Don’t think, just go—_

The boat tears away, and they’re gone, gone, and Peter clings to the tiller and wills himself not to think about the ones they weren’t able to save, how they were bobbing in the waves and flailing their arms above their heads mere seconds ago—not to see their faces or hear them screaming _Please, God please—_

“Easy, lad,” Officer Collins’ voice murmurs in his ear. A hand on his elbow, bringing him back to his body. “All these men are alive, and you’re bringing them back, and that’s what counts. Won’t be long now.”

Peter nods, blinks, nods again. That’s right, they’re going back to Weymouth now, back to England. Everyone will be waiting at the docks for them, they’ll get George to the clinic and patch him right up, and then he and Dad and George will all be—

Peter glances down. Belowdecks, the soldiers are starting to crowd into the cabin. _They’re going to wake George,_ Peter thinks, and cries out, “Careful down there.”

The soldier closest to George’s makeshift pallet lifts disbelieving eyes to Peter’s. “He’s dead, mate," the soldier says slowly.

A heartbeat passes. Two. The only sound is the rattle of the motor. “Then be bloody careful with him,” Peter repeats, and distantly he appreciates how even his voice sounds to his own ears. Aware that his father, Officer Collins, and the shivering man are all watching him, he sets his chin and tightens his cold fingers around the lever, pushing the tiller to port. No space for any thought other than _hold it steady, go, go, go,_ as the wind sends clouds of salt and ash chasing after them.

Peter’s not sure how much time has gone by before he realizes the boat is listing; only a little, but they can’t take any chances. “Gentlemen,” he says, addressing the soldiers huddled on the starboard side. “We’re listing…could some of you find a way to move so we can distribute the weight?”

The men shuffle portward half-heartedly, but it’s not enough to make a difference. Seeing this, after everything, Peter feels something inside him finally turn brittle and snap, and he struggles savagely to push the pieces down and just breathe—

“Oi, you heard the sailor,” one of the soldiers barks suddenly. He rises to his feet and flings his arm wide, the picture of authority even though he can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen, close to Peter’s own age. “We didn’t get rescued only to sink halfway across the fucking Channel, so move your arses, all right?”

They do, properly this time. The one who spoke out watches them in silence, then glances questioningly at Peter, who nods, satisfied. The young soldier nods too, then resumes sitting cross-legged, staring out at the water.

“Thank you,” Peter croaks. “What—what’s your name?”

The soldier turns his grime-streaked face, squinting into the light. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and there’s a glob of something—probably seaweed—hanging off his left shoulder. “Private Lightoller,” he answers, voice hoarse but steady.

“Your real name,” Peter blurts out.

The soldier looks stricken for a moment, as though he can’t remember. It’s only for a moment, though, and the look is quickly replaced by something softer. “Alexander,” he says. His eyes don’t leave Peter’s. “Alex.”

“I’m Peter,” Peter says in kind. “Peter Dawson.”

The ghost of a smile flits across Alex’s face, and he touches his hand to his temple in a faint salute. “Well, then. Take us home, Peter Dawson.”

Ahead of them, emerging gradually from the fog, are the looming shapes of the white cliffs. As the soldiers catch sight of them and let out cries of wonder, relief, joy—Peter lifts his head to look at the clouds instead. The snatches of afternoon sky that he can see are blue as a crystal. He didn’t think the sky could be so blue, on a day like this.

 

They come pouring into Weymouth harbor, boat by boat, and the waiting townsfolk and navy men all erupt in cheers—tossing them lines and hauling them in, hands outstretched to help them out of their vessels. All at once, everything is a blur of color and sound, and Peter doesn’t know how they’re going to make it off the docks and to their street until his father lays a hand on his shoulder, ready to steer him the way he always has.

Mum is waiting outside their front door. For a second Peter thinks she won’t want to touch him; the red jumper she knitted for him is soaked through with seawater and grease and possibly blood—but then she pulls him close, and he leans into her and breathes her in, clean sweat and soap, and nearly sobs.

Home. They’re home.

There’s no resting just yet, however—there’s bread and hard biscuits, water, coffee, and weak tea to be passed out to all the tired soldiers trudging up the thoroughfare. In the kitchen, Peter and his mother fill and hand out the front windows all of their teacups, bowls, and saucers; when they run out of those, Mum starts rinsing out the flowerpots.

The sun is setting by the time Peter manages to step over the two men who are speaking in whispers while sitting hip-to-hip on the doormat. Stumbling into the street, he casts his gaze around until he spots Private Lightoller— _Alex,_ he remembers. The young soldier is leaning against the postbox, chewing pensively on a long blade of grass. Cautiously, Peter approaches and offers Alex the bowl of tea he’s holding.

That not-quite-smile returns, the shadows falling across his face filling the hollows in his cheeks. “Much obliged,” Alex says before taking a long draught; his voice is stronger now, Peter notices, slow and deep like the low tide. “I’d pay you for the cuppa, but—“

“Nonsense. What with the ration, it’s more water than tea anyway.” Peter glances away, embarrassed. “More importantly, I mean…there’s not a vessel in Weymouth didn’t go out today for the evacuation. You’ve been fighting for Britain long enough, it’s the least we can do.”

Alex is silent for a long while, gazing out at the other soldiers who are milling about amongst the houses. When he speaks again, it’s almost as if he’s in a trance. “On our way down to the shore, some Jerry hid down a side street and tossed a bomb right in our path.” He plucks the blade of grass from between his lips and taps it absentmindedly, as though it’s a cigarette. “Stick grenade. Have you ever seen one of those, it’s _that_ big. Would’ve taken all our heads clean off, but—one of my commanding officers dove right onto it without wasting a breath. Major Jameson.” Alex slides the grass between his teeth again, bites down hard. “I wasn’t but ten feet away. He had a wife and two littl’uns waiting for him back home.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter supplies, even though he knows it’s not enough.

Alex is shaking his head, almost imperceptibly. “All I did was survive. That’s what I keep thinking. _There’s a brave lad, go on, heroes all of you,_ they were saying, back there on the dock…” He presses his lips together. “All I did was fucking survive.”

“I think,” Peter says slowly, after the silence has settled, “there are different kinds of heroes. You don’t have to—die, it’s stupid to think the world’s split into heroes and survivors. You fought. You made it out alive. You’re here.” He stops, embarrassed again at having said too much, worried he’s said the wrong thing entirely.

But all Alex says, calmly, is, “Then I could say the same for you.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Different kinds of heroes,” Alex parrots back to him. He flicks his blade of grass to the ground and, presumably out of habit, grinds it into the cobblestones with his boot. “You sailed to France for us. You rescued us. We’d have been dead if not for you, Peter Dawson.”

“But you…come on, you’re making it sound like, when _I_ didn’t—“ Peter breaks off helplessly, not knowing how to explain that what he’s done pales in comparison to everything else he’s witnessed in this war. He thinks of his father, never once considering turning the boat around, insisting they stay the course for Officer Collins’ plane even as they watched it sink below the surface. He thinks of all the men they left behind, on the shore, in the sea. He thinks of his brother Edward, shot down over France near the start of the war, sent home as nothing more than a medal in a box.

Of George, who used to cut chunks off apples with his pocket-knife and toss them in the air to catch in his mouth; who as a boy challenged him to bicycle races to the tuck shop, where the loser had to buy the winner a licorice stick; George, who perpetually wore that slightly mocking expression on his face, eyes glinting like coals and the corner of his mouth curled up into his strange half-smile, as though he’d just thought of a brilliant joke he planned on keeping all to himself. _(Who came along even though he didn't have to,_ Peter recalls—impossible, madness, to think it was just this morning.) George, who will never laugh again, never kiss another girl or sing another song—who will be buried in the churchyard now, years and years before his time. Peter’s eyes sting, and he closes them, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Alex doesn’t say another word, merely passes the bowl of tea back to him. Peter accepts it, and the soldier’s long fingers briefly brush his own. It really is more water than tea, but at least it’s warm.

“Maybe someday, someone will talk about what we did today and call the both of us heroes, and we’ll see what they mean.” A bitter smile crosses Alex’s face, as his gaze returns to the street. A stray dog has wandered up to a group of soldiers, and they’re all petting it and feeding it their leftover crumbs. “But not today.”

Peter understands. He does.

The sun is almost gone, and as the lamps are lit, a fresh wind starts to roll in from the ocean. Peter inhales the familiar scent, wanting it to rinse his lungs clean. “The whole town’s opening their houses,” he remarks, as the breeze ruffles his hair. “The church and the schoolhouse too. You should stay here a while…get a full night’s sleep.”

Alex hesitates, but then shakes his head. “I’ll be on the first night train out of Dorset. Got used to sleeping on anything that moves. Or not sleeping, as the case may be.”

“Oh.” Of course. “Where are you headed?”

“For now, Lancashire. That’s home for me.” Though he keeps his tone even, there’s an unmistakable longing in Alex’s voice, and Peter knows it would be cruel to ask him to stay any longer.

He extends his hand, and Alex clasps it. Time for each of them to start piecing their corner of the world back together, somehow, for as long as they can. They both know the war's not over yet. “Safe journey, Alex,” Peter murmurs. Alex nods wordlessly. 

With that, Alex picks up the helmet at his feet and makes his way down the road. He passes a few houses before he stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Hey, Peter Dawson,” he calls. Then his face breaks into a smile, the first real one he’s done—and some small part of Peter wishes Alex weren’t so far away, so he could see it better.

“If this bloody war ever ends, and we’re both still in one piece, or as many pieces as can get stitched back together and still work—I’ll look you up,” Alex shouts. “I owe you a cup of tea.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Peter calls back. Alex lifts his hand in farewell, then tucks his helmet under his arm and turns to go.

Leaning back on the postbox, Peter swills the dregs of tea round in the bowl and watches Alex’s retreating back. He watches until the soldier’s silhouette melts into the darkness—slowly becoming indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape, just a shadow, then nothing at all, evaporating into the night-blue air.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome, and very much appreciated!
> 
> I was trying to come up with a surname for Alex, and thought of naming him “Lightoller” after Second Officer Charles Lightoller from the Titanic. Imagine my complete surprise when, upon researching the Little Ships, I found out that Charles Lightoller was one of the real men who took his civilian vessel out to Dunkirk to help evacuate the soldiers. Needless to say, I took this as a Very Good Omen, so here we are.
> 
> That said, sorry if parts of this seem unpolished, and apologies for any historical, factual, manner of speech-related, or movie-related errors you might find! I only saw the movie once and punched this out a couple of hours later, and although I did do as much supplementary research as I could, my usual research process was extremely expedited for this fic. And overall I’m just really rusty fanfic-wise, so huhuhu. (also, I really tried to make them kiss but I couldn’t figure out how, I’m sorryyyyy maybe some other time)


End file.
